Blood on the Tracks

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Hopeless,’ he muttered, ‘hopeless; but—ah!’

  He was carefully picking out a piece of shell, which he placed on the seat. The search continued: two other pieces were selected, which, after a further scrutiny, he roughly joined together.

  ‘Do you see, Bob?’ he cried.

  I did and I didn’t. Stamped in violet ink on the fragments were some letters. On one piece was written ‘atch’; on the other, ‘ways.’ Presumably part of the name of the firm where the egg had been bought, and I said so. But what further light that fact threw on the matter was beyond me, and I said that, too.

  He put the bits of shell into an empty matchbox, as there came the sound of people getting into the carriage.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right, Bob; we’ll see,’ he said, slipping the box into his pocket.

  Inspector Grantham was coming along the corridor, and with him was a man carrying a small black bag. A doctor obviously, but the thing that struck me at once was the expression of subdued triumph on the Inspector’s face.

  ‘Here you are, doctor,’ he said. ‘And as soon as you’ve made your preliminary examination I’ll have the body moved to a waiting-room.’

  Then, as the doctor entered the compartment, he joined us in the corridor.

  ‘I’ve found the revolver, Mr Standish,’ he remarked complacently.

  ‘You have, have you?’ said Ronald. ‘Where?’

  ‘In one of Carter’s suit-cases.’

  ‘Was it loaded?’

  ‘No, but there was a half-open packet of ammunition. And that’s better than your raw egg, I’m thinking.’

  ‘How does he account for its being there?’ demanded Ronald, ignoring the gibe.

  ‘He doesn’t. He simply says he was taking it down to the country with him.’

  ‘Which,’ said Ronald, ‘is probably the truth.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ agreed the Inspector. ‘I don’t suppose for a moment that he brought it on the train to shoot Goldberg, but finding Goldberg in the same carriage with him he yielded to the temptation. Come, come, Mr Standish,’ he went on good-humouredly, ‘you’re very smart and all that, but really there is no good trying to pretend that there is any mystery here. Goldberg was shot by someone in this carriage. Carter admits having had a bad quarrel with him; Carter is in possession of a revolver and ammunition. Moreover, no sign of arms can be found on the other three people concerned. The thing is as plain as a pikestaff.’

  And I saw that Ronald looked worried.

  ‘Too plain, Grantham,’ he said. ‘Altogether too plain. But if you’re right there’s only one place Carter ought to be sent to, and that’s a lunatic asylum. The man must be crazy. Why on earth didn’t he throw the gun out of the window?’

  The Inspector shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Like your raw egg, Mr Standish, I can’t tell you,’ he remarked. ‘Well, doctor?’

  ‘Killed instantaneously, of course,’ said the other, joining us. ‘If you will have the body moved, Inspector, I will carry on at once.’

  The Inspector bustled off, followed by the doctor, and Ronald turned to me.

  ‘Bad, Bob; damned bad,’ he said, and I have seldom seen him look so grave.

  ‘You think Carter did it?’ I asked.

  ‘I am as certain as I can be of anything that he didn’t,’ he answered quietly. ‘But on the face of it, Carter’s position is about as serious as it could well be.’

  And so Carter evidently realised. We found him in the custody of a policeman, and the instant he saw us he sprang to his feet.

  ‘Look here, sir,’ he cried to Ronald, ‘I don’t know who you gentlemen are, but I assume you’re something to do with the police. Well, all I can tell you is that I swear before heaven I had no more to do with the death of Samuel Goldberg than you had. I often take a revolver with me when I go down to stay with my uncle. I’m a very keen shot, and potting at rabbits is marvellous practice.’

  ‘I believe you, Carter,’ said Ronald, holding out his hand. ‘But there’s no good blinding yourself to the fact that a combination of circumstances has put you in a very awkward corner.’

  Carter’s expression, which had cleared at Ronald’s first words, clouded again.

  ‘It’s hideous,’ he cried passionately. ‘It’s like a nightmare. I’m not a fool, and I see the gravity of the situation. Someone in the carriage must have shot him and I’m found with a gun. But if I’d done it should I have kept the revolver?’

  ‘Exactly what I said to the Inspector,’ said Ronald, with a grave smile. ‘But you may depend on one thing—’

  He broke off.

  ‘Hallo! Grantham doesn’t look too happy.’

  The Inspector was coming along the platform with a puzzled frown.

  ‘Well, Mr Carter,’ he said, ‘I must apologise.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Carter almost shouted.

  ‘The bullet doesn’t fit your revolver.’

  For a moment or two there was dead silence. Then Ronald stepped up to Carter and clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘Well out of a nasty position.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Carter quietly. ‘I don’t want to go through another half-hour like that again. I don’t blame you in the slightest degree, Inspector; it must have looked a cert to you. But you can imagine my feelings, knowing I hadn’t done it.’

  ‘I apologise again,’ said the Inspector. ‘But, damn it,’ he burst out, ‘who did? Well, it will be a question of searching the line till we find the revolver that that bullet does fit.’

  ‘You never will,’ remarked Ronald, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Grantham.

  ‘Because it isn’t there.’

  ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me next that Goldberg wasn’t shot at all,’ said the Inspector sarcastically.

  ‘No, not that. But once again I am going to suggest to you that you consider in all its aspects the extraordinary phenomenon of the raw egg.’

  ‘Any other points?’ asked the Inspector, impressed in spite of himself.

  ‘Two,’ said Ronald. ‘First—the strange fact that the window was open when Carter’s interview with Goldberg finished, and was shut when the body was found. Second—that Carter is certainly not the only person in the world who owes Goldberg money.’

  ‘Damn it!’ exploded Grantham, ‘I believe you know who did it.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Ronald emphatically. ‘Moreover, it is quite possible I never shall. But we’ll see. Once again congratulations, Carter, on a lucky escape. If that bullet had fitted your gun you would have been in the soup. Come on, Bob; here’s our train coming. I’ve just got time to ask the guard of the express one question.’

  And the only remark he made to me the whole way up to London added considerably to my mental confusion.

  ‘Well done, Bob,’ he said. ‘You solved that in masterly fashion.’

  ‘I solved it!’ I spluttered.

  ‘Of course you did, old boy. When you said the murderer had an egg in one hand and a revolver in the other.’

  For the next few days I did not see him at all. The newspapers, naturally, were full of the case, and interviews were published with all four of the other occupants of the carriage. In fact, ‘Mystery of the Slip Coach’ appealed immensely to the man in the street, owing to the strange circumstances of the crime.

  And it certainly was a baffling affair. As far as the public was concerned, it was obvious that one of the four people in the coach was guilty, and in most clubs betting on the final result was frequent. And it was inevitable that Carter should prove the favourite in spite of the fact that the shot did not fit his revolver. The Vicar and his wife were a delightful old pair who had lived a blameless life for years at Meston; Major Blackton turned out to be an extremely wealthy man who had just r
eturned to England after a prolonged absence abroad, and who had never heard of Goldberg in his life.

  ‘You mark my words,’ said a man one day to me, ‘young Carter did it, and he’s a mighty deep ’un. Shall I tell you how? He had a second revolver. D’you get me? The gun he shot Goldberg with he bunged out of the window, leaving the other one to be found.’

  The trouble was that in spite of an army of searchers no trace of another gun could be found. A large reward was offered by the police, without producing any result, and another theory was started. Carter must have had a confederate who picked up the revolver when it was thrown from the train. And that held the field for quite a time, till it was conclusively proved that Goldberg had only decided to go by that train on the very morning in question, and that it was, therefore, utterly impossible for Carter to have known about it in time to make any such arrangements.

  Another source of information from which the police had hoped to derive some help proved of no assistance. The people in the other train, who had first seen the body, could say nothing which threw any more light on matters. They were two young men, one of whom was standing up at the window watching the express as it gradually overtook them. He had seen the body sprawling on the seat and realising that something was amiss, he had, with his companion, attracted the Vicar’s attention. But of one thing they were positive: the window of Goldberg’s carriage was shut. And as time went on it began to look as if the mystery would prove insoluble, which would have been unpleasant for Carter. For there was no doubt that a large percentage of the public believed that in some way or other he had done it. And even though that belief was only due to the fact that it was most unlikely that any of the other three was guilty—that it was arrived at by a process of elimination, and was not the result of any positive evidence—it made things no better for him.

  And then one morning I got a ’phone message from Ronald, asking me to go round to his rooms. He was not in when I got there, but, somewhat to my surprise, I found Inspector Grantham.

  ‘Morning, Mr Miller,’ he said gloomily. ‘I hope Mr Standish has found out something, for this case isn’t doing me any good.’

  ‘I know he doesn’t think it was Carter,’ I said.

  ‘Then who could it have been?’ he cried. ‘But I can’t arrest him. We haven’t a shred of evidence. If only we could find the gun it was done with.’

  The door opened and Ronald entered.

  ‘Come in, Mr Meredith,’ he said, nodding to us. ‘Here are the other two gentlemen who I know will be interested in our little venture.’

  A morose-looking individual entered as he was speaking, who contemplated us suspiciously.

  ‘You remember, Bob,’ Ronald went on, ‘our ideas about a chicken farm. Well—I’ve found the very spot, and Mr Meredith is quite willing to sell.’

  ‘Give me my figure, and you can have it tomorrow,’ said the new-comer. ‘Not that it isn’t a good proposition: it is. But I haven’t the money to run it. I’ll have a drop of Scotch, thank you.’

  I glanced at the Inspector as Ronald filled a glass, but his face was impassive. Only the faintest of winks showed that he realised something was up, but I knew he was as much in the dark as I was.

  ‘Here’s how,’ said Meredith, and drained his drink. ‘Well, gentlemen, do we talk business?’

  ‘No time like the present,’ said Ronald cheerfully, ringing the bell. ‘Take away that empty glass, will you, Sayers,’ he told his man, ‘and bring in some more clean ones. Now, Mr Meredith, I understand Hatchaways is for sale, and that the price you are asking is fifteen hundred pounds?’

  ‘That is correct,’ agreed the other, his eyes sparkling greedily.

  ‘And it is not mortgaged nor encumbered in any way?’

  ‘No; the property is quite clear.’

  The door opened, and Sayers came in carrying some more glasses. And as he put them down I saw him nod to Ronald.

  ‘Have you had to borrow any money on the place, Mr Meredith?’ continued Ronald.

  ‘You’ll pardon me, Mr Standish, but I don’t see that that has anything to do with you,’ said Meredith truculently.

  ‘You didn’t borrow, for instance, from Samuel Goldberg, who has recently been murdered?’

  Meredith gave one uncontrollable start. Then he pulled himself together.

  ‘Never heard of the man till I saw his death in the paper.’

  ‘Strange,’ said Ronald quietly. ‘He was a complete stranger to you, maybe?’

  ‘Absolute.’

  ‘Then why, Meredith, did you throw that egg through his open window in the Downwater express as his carriage came level with yours?’

  Meredith lurched to his feet and tried to bluster. But there was sick fear in his face and Grantham moved towards the door.

  ‘It’s a cursed lie,’ he said thickly.

  ‘Oh, no, it isn’t,’ answered Ronald sternly. ‘On the shell of the egg you threw are fingerprints: on the glass you’ve just drunk from are fingerprints. And those fingerprints are identical. There’s your man, Grantham. He murdered Samuel Goldberg by shooting him through the head from the other train.’

  For a moment there was silence, and then with a roar of rage Meredith whipped a revolver out of his pocket. But he was too late. Grantham was on him like a flash.

  ‘And that is the gun, Inspector,’ continued Ronald, calmly, ‘that I told you you would not find on the permanent way.’

  ‘I wish to heaven you’d elucidate, old boy,’ I said a few minutes later, ‘for it’s the smartest thing I’ve ever known.’

  Ronald filled his pipe thoughtfully.

  ‘You may remember, Bob,’ he said, ‘that after your illuminating remark I went into the next compartment and started monkeying about with the window. Now, there are two main types of fitting in trains. The more common has a long strap, and with that sort, when the strap has been pulled to the full extent, an outward push on the bottom of the window is necessary to keep it shut. The other type has no strap, but a slot in the top sash which, when pulled up to the full extent, automatically remains there. And that was the type used in the slip coach.

  ‘You may also remember how I harped on the raw egg. I could not place it, Bob; every instinct in me rebelled against the thought that Goldberg carried one raw egg with him. Then you made the remark about the murderer carrying it. Once again it was incredible if the murderer was in the carriage. He wouldn’t come in, plaster an egg on the door, and then shoot Goldberg. But, supposing the murderer hadn’t been in the carriage—what then? For a considerable time another train had been running parallel with the express, and at about the same speed. Supposing a man in that other train had seen Goldberg sitting in his compartment, and to attract his attention had thrown an egg through the open window, what would be Goldberg’s reaction? He would get up to shut the window, to prevent more eggs following. Supposing that then the egg-thrower shot him through the brain. Now you and I have seen men killed instantaneously in France, and if you cast your mind back you will remember that quite a number threw up their arms and fell backwards. What would have happened if Goldberg’s fingers had been in the notch of the window? Just what did happen in this case: he shut the window with his last convulsive jerk, thereby making it appear impossible for him to have been shot from anywhere except inside the carriage, which was, of course, an incredible piece of luck for the murderer.

  ‘So on that hypothesis I started. You heard me say to Grantham that I might never find the man who did it, and but for luck which now turned against him I never should have. My starting point, naturally, was the other train and its occupants. Now the last station at which it had stopped, before the murder had been committed, was Pedlington, and so there I repaired. I made inquiries with the utmost caution, because it was essential that nothing should get into the papers if we weren’t going to alarm our bird, whoever he was. And after talking to the sta
tionmaster and getting in touch with the guard of the train, facts began to accumulate, though it was a slow business.

  ‘The first thing I found out was that the train was comparatively empty—so empty that the guard was able to remember more or less accurately how the passengers were seated. And the important thing was to ascertain how many compartments had only one occupant. There were only three to his certain knowledge: one with a woman, two each with a man. More than that he could not say, except that the woman was very old.

  ‘Now came the wearisome search. I eliminated the woman, and concentrated on the men. I went to every station after Pedlington at which the train stopped, and got in touch with the ticket collector. It was still an absolute toss-up if I could spot my man. If it was someone carrying a few eggs in a paper bag it was hopeless. And then came an astounding stroke of luck. The collector at Marlingham—four stations beyond Pedlington—remembered a man who got out there with a basket of eggs and who asked the way to some farm.

  ‘Bob, I was getting warm. Off to the farm I went, and found that a man called Meredith, who owned a chicken farm called Hatchaways, not far from Pedlington itself, had been there. And now I knew I’d got him. You remember the letters on the broken shell—“atch” and “ways.” He was my bird, but he was still a long way from the net.

  ‘So back to Pedlington, where I posed as a man with a certain amount of money who was interested in chicken farming. And I soon met Master Meredith, who thought he had found a sucker. Further inquiries revealed the fact that he was in bad financial straits, and was only too ready to sell. Further inquiries also revealed the very significant and unusual fact that he always carried a Colt revolver in his pocket wherever he went—a habit, he said, he got into while out West. So I staged the little performance this morning. Marshall, from the Yard, the fingerprint expert, was outside, and when Sayers nodded to me I knew that there was no mistake.